I seem unable to escape tragedy today, which wants me so bad it literally throws itself in front of me. First there was the Barbara Cartland Fiasco. I went down the hill to the village and rented a film and put a $20 bill on the counter and told them that the Queen would take care of things for me (since it is a picture of the Queen on the Canadian $20 bill). “Or perhaps it is Barbara Cartland, I can never tell the difference between the two, so perhaps Barbara Cartland will solve my problems.”
And the guy, who owns the store and again, seem maybe, I dunno 40, and I assumed was sort of worldly wise goes, “Wha?”
“Barbara Cartland?” I said.
“Is that someone I should know?”
Me, “It’s Barbara Cartland? She wears pink, she has a hairdo like the queen and carries a small white dog with her (like the Queen!)!”
“And what is she exactly?”
Me: “Well, she has probably written and sold more books than most Canadian authors put together (Hey, I didn’t create her, I’m just telling it like it is).”
Him: “Do you read her?”
Him: “Well how would you know about her?”
Me: “It’s BARBARA CARTLAND! I haven’t read a lot of Stephen King but I’ve HEARD he exists!”
See, what is the point of continuing at this point? The joke which was about the passing look of Barbara Cartland and that of the Queen is now gone, though I went on to explain that Barbara is so OTT that she could either be the Queen of the UK OR a drag queen, one is never too sure. She is a girl who is Barbie gone bad, I mean, if there is a question “Can you surround yourself with too much pink?” The answer is: Barbara Cartland?
Of course I pointed out that it is actually Dame Barbara Cartland because in the UK, if you write a shitload of romances over a period of time you get a title; or if you write pop songs, you get knighted like Sir Elton John. I like that about the UK, you can completely sell out for long periods of time and become nobility for it. While here in Canada you have to do something serious and noble before you get The Order of Canada, while if Canada was like the UK, the Bare Naked Ladies (the band who wrote “If I had a million dollars”) would be Sir Bare Naked Ladies.
I decided, since I was very late that I was going to wheel up the hill in a single go with a 1-2-3-4 beat. The first section which is very steep was 50 strokes and about stroke 40 I decided that EVERY able bodied person should be forced to go up a hill in wheelchair, maybe before they graduate school, just because. Hills are a BITCH. So I am wheeling the second section, forcing myself to keep on pace and breathing heavy while this sort of caricature female from the 1970: a woman in mid 50’s who is walking in tiny steps in her high heel PINK mules across the street. She is wearing some sort of polyester and her middle looks like a beach ball and she turns as I wheeze up to the light and says, making a pushing down motion, “Good exercise huh!” And then totters off on her PINK mules while I sit there and wonder why people say asshole things around wheelies, is it because they think they are being friendly? I mean, if there was someone running, I would take the “good exercise” comment because they are actually exercising but from this woman who was probably taking her bonbons back for her daily soaps, I was mentally think, “Yeah, I’m in a freaking wheelchair because I got tired of the Pilates; and the Nordic Trek didn’t do it for me so now I drag my entire body weight up hills one 8 inch push at a time because it’s GOOD EXERCISE.”
Dunno, maybe there are just people who will always say something stupid, they were probably in line on the Titanic for lifeboats and asking, “Will this be over in time for the midnight buffet?” Just couldn’t get the Pink Mules out of my mind, at least until I got home. That because there was an email from my parentals from their vacation to let me know (with no real explanation or context) they had realized that ‘all of us are flawed and at times deceitful, dishonest and hurtful’. I guess this is the Xmas letter. I find words like “deceitful” and “dishonest” to be rather strong and am not sure why someone would send me a letter from vacation telling me they understand everyone is deceitful. I mean, they are telling ME, so it is hard not to take the “all of us” somewhat personally. Because those really aren’t the three words I would use to describe myself (and since they put (even us) in parenthesis so I would know they were talking about someone else). Actually, do I really want my parents describing themselves as ‘deceitful’ or ‘dishonest’ – not really. Most children actually like to believe their parents are good people doing they best they can; so I hope they keep any additional murders or bank robberies they may have committed to themselves.
There is, as usual, nothing asking about how I am doing (children who go around doing attention seeking behavior like…going out in PUBLIC in a wheelchair will NOT be rewarded), but a statement that after I talked to them last week, they now realize they misread some of my non-verbal communication and that is why they bailed (or are still bailed). I dunno, I am trying to figure out how you classify; “Beth is sick” or “Beth is sleeping” from Linda as non-verbal communication of “Stay away from me for months and months.”
Anyway, after that I got an email letting me know that the part time job I applied for as an Equity officer in the Equity and Human rights office was turned down: “The selection committee has carefully considered applications from all the candidates and has decided upon someone to fill the position. While we were impressed and intrigued with your application…..”
I was puzzled because it doesn’t sound like there was a shortlist just WHAMMO, you’ll do. And they were “intrigued” with my application? Well then hire me and find out more. I don’t spread the legs till you pay out, get what I mean. Damn. Oh well, back to job hunting. Mostly now I want a job so that I can then go on disability. I think the irony in Canada is sort of funny; easier to go on disability when employed than not.
Oh yeah, the next part might be a bit ICK, so I warned you. I woke up with another nosebleed and then after finding out I was “intriguing” but unemployed I went to the bathroom to take a dump (which since I don’t have normal functioning intestines is a bit more complicated). But I did the deed and wipe and I look at the toilet paper and double take because instead of shit, which is, after many years of taking dumps, what I expected, the toilet paper is COMPLETELY covered with dried and congealed blood. I think, “This is not good!” Because of the volume, and I wipe again and yup, no shit, I have somehow taken at least a partial dump of congealed blood. So I clean up and think. And no matter how I figure it, telling Linda or a doctor is going to end up in some sort of probe up my ass. And while the fact that I am taking some dumps of shit and some of clumped congealed blood is disturbing, probe up the ass wins out as more disturbing. So I will do the tired and true method of “do nothing, say nothing” until I see how frequent and the volume we are talking about. But still, not a good sign. I mean why can’t I be called deceitful and dishonest by my parents, shit blood but GET the job? But I guess it doesn’t go that way. Damn.
But there is a good side to this all: The BITCH is back. Meaning, that in life, in writing, I am going to work harder (however that might possible). And yes, I am going to come back and talk about death and dying, and instead of abstractly talking about my fears, I am going to walk you through what I can remember, and figure out a way to connect with you so that YOU are afraid; so that you are puking in your trash can because I am going to bring you in so close that you understand what 24/7 of being me means.
But that is just the physical, the meat stick, the pain, the saliva dripping onto the floor, the fire as it bursts up from my chest, along my neck as I feel the spasms, the pounding, the ripping of the pain while my membranes quiver and spasm from it, and I wait for the blood to pour out while praying to go insane because there is a beast inside, a burning beast of fire, and it is tearing up my brain, my chest, my neck, even the sinus cavity DESIRES to explode. That is just meat. Boring. Yeah, I lived it, and by my average I will probably live it again in a day or two. SO FUCKING WHAT? As they say about money, there is no point hoarding it all, or if you are going to lose it might as well enjoy it. And I had a very big brain, which has been shaved down a bit but, so what? I mean, yes, it means some days I cannot chose my own clothes or go outside alone and but it also means that like the nasty old cat they keep dumping in the river, I come BACK. Or rather, I don’t have a plan for surviving the summer but I expect I will. And I will enjoy myself, I will smile and laugh and swear and when I have a good day, I will wheel out to rip out the bellies of any bullies or hypocrites I can find. And keep apply for jobs, probably just so I can get on the shortlist and they can say at the end, “Is there anything else you want to tell us.” And I can say, “I shit blood, is that going to be a problem?” Yeah, can’t wait to see how they manage to refer that to Human Resources! I am the exorcist girl – get used it!
I am going to San Francisco in the fall. Simply because I want to. Yeah, I got a lot of things to sell between now and then but when it comes to full on, “Just try and stop me” I am pretty damn a force of nature (who has seizures during the force of nature).
Oh, yeah, it appears my secondary autonomic system, my backup, the one I use at night when asleep, is starting to fail. It is showing the same errors that I plotted in my waking system just over a year ago. And if THAT continues, well, once I get to lack of oxygen conversion when asleep, it will be a lot harder to keep me alive. Last night, I was on oxygen and my fingers turned purple, then still on oxygen, two of them started turning blue (not fingernails, FINGERS). That just means that even with oxygen I am not converting enough or the circulation is screwed up. I am just a little worried about brain damage. I prefer to have brain damage after DOING something, not just because it is evening and my body is tired. Screws up my idea of PLANNED dangerous activity when sitting watching US TV causes me ACTUAL brain damage.
Going to San Fran: anyone got those cyborg bodies of sci fic perfected yet?
9 hours ago